


Beloved Bastards

by Freebirdflying



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Don't post to other sites, Drunk John Watson, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Rating May Change, Romantic Soulmates, Soulmates, Whinging, anthea ships it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-06-17
Packaged: 2021-02-22 12:43:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22716262
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Freebirdflying/pseuds/Freebirdflying
Summary: Everyone hopes to find a soulmate someday, someone to complete you, understand you, and cherish you forever, but thus far, all Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade have found is someone who can aggravate and annoy like no other.  Why does Mycroft have to be so condescending and presumptuous and...and...posh?!  And why does that irritating DI have to be so cheeky and un-intimidateable?  The friends and colleagues of both are getting tired of the constant whinging!
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 51
Kudos: 101
Collections: Mystrade Soulmates Week 2020





	1. Moaning Over a Pint

“He’s such a _bastard._ I mean, as if working until eleven at night to finish paperwork wasn’t bad enough, His Highness has to show up to snipe at me,” Greg Lestrade groused over his beer.

“Yeah…” John Watson was obviously falling asleep due to a couple more pints than he should have had on top of being out until 2:30 in the morning the night before on a stakeout with Sherlock. “Mmm…um, what did he want?”

“He wanted to chat about Sherlock’s involvement in the trafficking case last week. I mean, don’t blame him there, that group is downright nasty and if we missed anyone they might well try to get some kind of revenge on ‘im, but I don’t think that Sherlock was ever in direct contact with them, so hopefully they won’t realize how much he was involved.”

“Hmmm…” John took a second to look up from his intense focus on his pint. “Yeah, he’s a…,” _yawn,_ “bastard all right, but I’m not seeing how that was so bad. You know how he worries over his brother.”

“He brought fancy coffee!”

“…You… _like_ …fancy coffee, though?” John looked a little confused as to why this was the horrific insult it had been.

“Obviously he thinks that I lack the sophistication to appreciate fine things, and just wanted to sneer at me for not noticing the undertones of almond and cinnamon…and maybe just a hint of vanilla.”

John raised an eyebrow. “But you did notice…”

Greg growled.

John, thinking better of finishing that sentence, went for a sympathetic nod, which made him a bit dizzy and cross-eyed. Better to stop moving his head too much.

“Well, he’s a sneery man…” he said, soothingly.

“He is! The sneeriest!”

“Yeah…” John took another sip.

“And his tone of voice! Talking to me like he’s trying to dumb down his words for me. I actually considered reading Literature at Uni before I settled on Criminal Justice. I know big words!”

“Yeah, mate…um, butyraceous?”

“Wha…?” It took Greg a moment to catch up, focused as he was on his rant. “Oh. It means _buttery_ , you tit.”

“Otorhinolaryngology?”

“Not the point, mate,” Greg glared at John, who just giggled a bit. “And just so you are _quite sure_ I’m not an idiot, it’s the study of the ear, nose and throat. My niece had her tonsils out last year.”

“Smaragdine?”

“It’s…um…well,” Greg scratched his head, “…some kind of Scottish boogeyman?”

John snorted. “Eh, it’s something or other about those green jewels…”

“Emeralds?”

“Yeah, those…I’m…I might be too drunk to explain it.”

“You just don’t remember.”

John just laughed and hiccupped some more.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m glad this is such a funny game for you. The POINT is that Mycroft is a pedantic twat, and he obviously thinks I’m an undereducated llama.”

“Hehe…llama,” John giggled again, taking another long pull of his—how many was it now? Maybe Greg should have been keeping better track of his friend—pint. “Llama laaaaaama…”

“Seriously mate, this is your last pint. Am I just ranting out loud to myself?”

“Sorry,” John muttered and rallied his remaining brain cells with a final hiccup. “Listening…Mycroft’s a twat, which is not news, and you know posh words.”

“Yeah, well…I’m just saying that he should be less of a snob when he’s asking for my help,” Greg muttered grumpily, draining the rest of his own pint. “Why d’you know all those big words, anyhow? I mean, the doctory one, yeah, but butyraceous?”

“So, funny story,” John perked up and his eyes widened. “So, last week, I used a term, something medical, in conversation that _Sherlock didn’t know the meaning of._ ” 

“Ooh, bet he loved that.”

“Yeaaah….” John smiled fondly. “He was such a git about it.” 

Greg just rolled his eyes; John’s infatuation even when remembering Sherlock being a twat was obvious. 

“So, he got in a snit when I told ‘im that of course I know words he doesn’t know, since I know more medical and military jargon,” John continued. He seemed much more awake now that he had a story to tell. “So he pulled a dictionary off the shelf and started quizzing me on random words.”

“Of course he did. Being obnoxious runs in the family,” Greg commiserated. 

“Nah, it was the best night _ever_!” John continued.

Greg raised an eyebrow.

“I was using my laptop when he started. I just pulled up dictionary.com and acted like I was still typing on my blog.” John drifted off into drunken giggles and took long enough to pull himself together that Greg finished the last twelve chips without him. “He was shocked at my increble…in-cred-ible vocabulary!”

Greg smirked at the mental image of an increasingly frantic Sherlock flipping through a dictionary looking for the biggest words he could find. “He never realized?”

“Naah…never did,” John had a huge grin now. “Fortunately, you called before he could get too deep into a sulk, and we rushed out. He’s still side-eyeing me when he thinks I’m not paying attention, though!”

“I would’ve loved to have seen his face.” Greg was grinning now, too. Funny how a tale of Sherlock being confused could cheer him up.

But Mycroft was still a bastard. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More chapters to come, but I wanted to at least get started posting this before Valentine's Day is over. I'll get more posted when I can; we've been having frequent power outages and horrible mobile data the last few days. 
> 
> The dictionary thing between John and Sherlock is based on a real-life event that happened with my next-door-neighbour and friend a few years ago. He was offended (mostly playfully) that I had a larger vocabulary than him, although I'm not sure why that was shocking--I have a degree in English and read the classics; he has a business degree and only reads Hemingway. He never realized that I could just look up the words he was quizzing me on on the laptop I was holding at the time. Not even when he came back two nights later to quiz me further!


	2. Burning Holes in the Spanish Armada

“Sir, are you ready to review the Barnersdale Proposal?” Anthea stuck her head into her boss’s office. He should have called for the next item on his docket five minutes ago; she’d calculated he would only need fifteen minutes for his current task.

Mr. Holmes gave her a mildly startled look from where he had been glaring holes in the painting of the Defeat of the Spanish Armada on the opposite wall. He glanced down at the open file on his desk.

“I find that I require a further five minutes.”

“If I may be so bold, sir, is there anything amiss?” As if she wasn’t far bolder than that when circumstances dictated, but they both kept up the act that she was a demure, harmless PA.

Mr. Holmes sighed. “I’ve carefully built my reputation as the Ice Man. And yet, the persona seems to have been less effective than desired in recent encounters with…certain people.”

“Well, sir, I did hear that the medical team was dispatched to Lord Allerby’s office after his meeting with you last week; he thought it was a heart attack but the issue turned out to be a panic attack brought on by his realization of his many inadequacies after you had...assisted him to discover them.”

“Oh?” Mycroft looked rather proud of himself.

“Yes, so it appears that your reputation served you well in ___that___ encounter. May I ask, which of your acquaintances is causing you this distress?”

“Detective Inspector Lestrade. From our first meeting in the warehouse, “ he didn’t have to explain, since she had helped to set up the scene, “when he was cocky and belligerent instead of appropriately terrified and intimidated as he should have been, I have failed to instill him a proper sense of my position and power.”

“That is unfortunate.”

“I could have him deported to Argentina!”

“Although, with his appreciation of well-cut beef, that might not be too much of a deterrent.”

“Vietnam!”

“Such delicious pho…”

“Tanzania!” He was getting a bit loud.

Anthea paused to consider.

“Well…possibly. I admit ugali and chipsi mayai get rather tiring rather quickly. However, the delights of the scenery and the ample opportunities for wildlife viewing…”

Anthea was cut off by a strangled noise.

“He ought to have been so intimidated he was quaking when I picked him up in the bullet proof jaguar with the tinted windows from that crime scene on the bank of the Thames during that rainstorm last month!”

“Quite so.”

“And when I arranged a meeting with him to discuss Sherlock’s wellbeing, in a private room at the Clove Club with the full tasting menu and an exquisite wine pairing, no less, he failed to be abashed by the grandeur or spill any sauce upon his person!”

“Shocking!”

“And I even wore my new pinstripe suit!”

“Who could fail to quiver?”

“Exactly!”

“Sir, you may want to place your pen on the desk, as I am aware it is a favourite of yours.”

Mycroft glanced down at his hand, which was clutching said writing utensil so tightly that it was in danger of being crushed and splattering himself and his lovely emerald-green silk tie with ink would certainly not improve his day. He followed his assistant’s suggestion.

“To add insult to injury, I also feel quite certain that he shamelessly flaunts his physical attractiveness in an attempt to gain my sympathy. Such a low ploy to try to distract me from tasks he cannot imagine the importance of!”

Anthea raised an eyebrow at this but kept her opinions to herself. 

“Bah!”

“Sir, I understand how trying it must be. Perhaps if you plan your next strategy meeting with the man in your rooms at the Diogenes? Perhaps if you wear your new silk waistcoat and serve some laudable scotch, he will be suitably impressed with your position? You might even discuss 20th century literature or noir films to show your sophistication?”

Mr. Holmes sighed. “I suppose that might be a suitable milieu to further illustrate to him that his insolence shall not be born.”

“And perhaps once you have made these arrangements, your mind will be free to return to the tasks of the day,” she hinted.

“Yes, I believe that would be the likely outcome. I will make a call, and then you may bring in the Barnersdale documents.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mr. Holmes sighed as she stepped out. Her suggestion was sound. One Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade should not be allowed to derail the workings of the British Government, and that fact would be duly impressed upon him next Thursday evening.

~~~~~~Gregory~~~~~~ ___that Detective Inspector___ was such an interloper. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tanzanian food really isn't so bad (I live here!), but it does get repetitive as there's not a ton of variety. So, just saying, I'm picking on the food of the country I live in, not just randomly bad-mouthing someone's cuisine. :)


	3. Ranting with a Hangover

On Friday morning, there was a light knock, which reverberated in his brain like a hammer on nails, at the door of Detective Inspector Lestrade’s office.

“Boss?”

“Mmm?” Lestrade blinked and looked up at his sergeant, standing in the door of his office. 

“You alright, there?” Donovan looked a bit concerned.

“Yeah, yeah…just a headache. Some coffee and paracetamol’ll take care of it soon.”

“Big night out?” she teased with a grin, fully recognizing the signs of a mild hangover.

“Hardly. Meeting with Sherlock’s insufferable older brother. Of course he plied me with his expensive Scotch.”

“Oh, the posh, uptight one? Yeah, doesn’t sound like a good time to me. But you’re usually quite fond of Scotch, aren’t you?”

“Well, yes, but he was just offering it to show off. So, I could hardly back down from the challenge, could I?”

“The challenge?”

“Such an aristocratic tosser should never think he can outdrink an East End working man like me! I’m sure he thought I’d be lolling around after one glass and he could have his way with me!”

“Have his way with you, sir? Is that something you’d enjoy?” Sally didn’t bother to hide her smirk.

Lestrade glared up at her. If Mycroft weren’t so dastardly, he was quite fit, really, and Greg hadn’t had a date in quite some time, so…but, he _was_ dastardly, so there was no point in thinking of it. Much. But he’d never tell _her_ that.

“No, no, that’s not how I meant it. I mean, he’d probably try to start one of his ridiculous mind games with me once I was sloshed. But he was more sloshed than me, so I foiled his great plan.”

“And why would he want to play mind games with you?”

“Dunno. He’s just such a smug, posh…,” Lestrade scrambled for an appropriate word, “… _prick_.”

“Okay, boss. At least you got some nice Scotch out of it. So I was looking at the file on…”

“Nice!” He cut back in, still on a roll with venting his indignation. “And he even tried to one-up me by lecturing me about noir films!” 

“Does he know that…”

“Me! As if I didn’t own a boxed set of Gene Tierney films! As if I wasn’t first inspired to become a detective from watching _The Big Heat_ as a child!”

“And his motive would be?” Donovan really wasn’t seeing what all the fuss was about.

“That’s the worst of it! I don’t know _what_ his motivation is to constantly insinuate himself…to try to make me let down my guard…but I KNOW he’s up to something!” Lestrade slammed his hand down on his desk and winced as the jolt reverberated up to his still-aching head.

Just then, one of the receptionists from downstairs poked his head in the open door. 

“Lestrade, I’ve got a delivery for you.” He held up a takeaway bag and a large insulated thermos. 

“I didn’t order…”

“Yeah, it was some woman with four-inch heels and a blackberry she never took ‘er eyes off of who dropped it by. Said you weren’t expecting it, but you’d know who it was from.”

“See what I mean, Sally?” he pointed an indignant finger towards to bag and gave her a meaningful glare.

“Um…” She really didn’t. Was it not a nice gesture to send over food (the smell of cinnamon was emanating from the bag and making her hungry) and coffee to an acquaintance who was likely to have a hangover?

“I’m just gonna set this here,” said the guy from downstairs, plopping both items onto the less piled-up corner of the desk. “I’ve gotta get back; we’re short-staffed today.” Without further ado, he escaped the room and headed for the lift.

“It may _seem_ like a nice gesture, Sally, but I guarantee that he’ll expect some favour in return. Always scheming, that one!”

“Well, at least the coffee and food will help your headache. I’ve just got to go check with the forensics lab on something…” Sally made her escape as well before he could go on. Honestly. She’d come back to ask her original question after the coffee had had time to work.

Lestrade eyed the bag on his desk balefully for another minute before slowly unrolling the top to inspect the cinnamon roll, glistening with icing, he found inside suspiciously.

What _was_ that man’s game?? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry new chapters are being posted slowly. I've had this one written for three days, but I haven't had internet good enough to post it. And I have house guests arriving tomorrow, so please be patient.


	4. Complaining to a Brother

_Plunk. Plunk. Plunk._

Sherlock Holmes sat sideways in his armchair, legs draped over the side, morosely plucking the strings of his violin with great focus. Well, it was either focus on the strings or look up at his elder brother, who seemed to be settling into John’s chair with the intention to stay a while. 

“…and while of course we should do all in our power to assuage Mummy’s fears that…”

“Mycroft. You did not cross London at rush hour to blather on about our dear Mother’s neurosis. She has many concerns for us that have been discussed ad nauseum and we both know she would be utterly at a loss for subjects of gossip if we were to actually assuage them all. Now, since obviously you feel the need to let noise escape from your face, please do get the point of this tête-à-tête before your overlarge posterior dents John’s chair beyond repair.”

Mycroft glared at his brother as he completed his sentence, just to make a point. “…her younger son has no sense of familial duty and furthermore lives in utter squalor.” This wasn’t actually how he had intended to finish the sentence, but under the circumstances…

“Yes, yes, I’m a disappointment and a wastrel. We’ve covered this. The POINT, dear brother?”

With one of his well-practised put-upon sighs, Mycroft settled himself more comfortably in the chair, or as comfortably as he could, seeing as it was better suited for a much shorter person. 

“Detective Inspector Lestrade is…”

“Oh, lord, this again. Really, Mycroft…”

“His behaviour and attitude continue to be entirely beyond the pale!”

“I fail to see why this concerns…”

“The audacity of this…this… _man_! Just last night, in a further effort on my part to duly impress upon him the seriousness of…”

The plunking resumed. Sherlock had been on the receiving end of several diatribes on quite similar themes over the past months. Honestly, the fact that the man who provided such lovely puzzles to him also was capable of infuriating his prissy older brother only raised his esteem for the Detective Inspector. 

“I am convinced that he is merely faking an appreciation of fine scotch so as to appear ingratiating, while in reality, he…”

 _Plunk. Plunk. Plunk._ Sherlock let his mind wander back to the chemical composition of blood samples from victims of poisoning that he’d been analyzing at the morgue that morning. Perhaps he would do well to write a monologue on the experiment for his website, although it would be even better were he to procure an example of arsenic poisoning to complete the set of most common poisons…

“Sherlock! What is your opinion?”

Sherlock let his eyes come back into focus to the rather red face of his scowling elder sibling. He shrugged noncommittally, as he wasn’t actually sure what he was meant to be opining on. It hardly mattered; his opinion was that his brother had somehow gotten a larger than usual stick up his arse the past few months, and for some reason, although they’d known of each other’s existence at a distance for several years now, he had chosen Lestrade as the object of his ire. 

Honestly, Sherlock was rather pleased that his own person was not the current object of his brother’s unseemly obsession, and so forbore pointing out that his large-nosed brother and Lestrade could just avoid each other if their encounters were the cause of so much unpleasantness. Honestly, face-to-face communication could hardly be necessary more than a handful of times throughout the year, and yet this was the seventh week in a row that the two had made a point to be in the same room and then glower about it for days afterwards. 

“Am I to take your lack of response to mean that you think I am in the right that the Inspector’s comments regarding my suit are an example of his disdain for the upper classes?”

Sherlock snorted. 

Mycroft’s lips grew even more pursed with indignation.

“Well, what _exactly_ where his comments?” Sherlock gave up and decided to play along for a bit, hoping his brother would tire of the subject eventually (unlikely). 

“First, he said, and I quote, ‘I like the cut of your new suit…’ “ Mycroft trailed off the give an imperious sniff.

Sherlock just raised an eyebrow.

“’…the closer cut through the thighs, and, um, well, it suits you.’” Mycroft finished. 

“And in what context did he make this statement?” Sherlock asked. 

“We were not even conversing on sartorial matters! We had been debating the merits of the last two examples of excellent Scotch that we had imbibed in. I recalled that I had stored a third variety on the bottom shelf of the lower cabinet, and just after I stood from retrieving it, he abruptly abandoned the topic of conversation to comment on the cut of my suit! As if he could possibly have the experience to critique a Davis & Son suit!” 

Mycroft followed up this outburst with several outraged huffs, while Sherlock just stared at him.

“I would be loath to let him loose on Savile Row! The man would probably put himself in a Chester Barrie when a Scabal cut would be much more flattering to his figure!”

Sherlock coughed politely, or, well, he coughed, anyhow. “So…he was staring at your arse.” 

Mycroft spluttered.

“And, in his complete lack of taste, found the view appealing. Must remember to recommend that John screen him for untreated brain injuries…”

Mycroft was still silent but turning redder in the face than Sherlock had seen him since the incident with Aunt Petunia and the Christmas pants in 1997. 

“Might I also add, brother mine, that you have taken enough notice of his figure to have strong opinions on which cuts he should wear.”

“That’s hardly an indication that…well, that is to say that…” Mycroft’s usual cool control was slipping. “As a connoisseur of fine tailoring, I could hardly help from noticing how his… _off-the-rack_ (spit out like a vulgarity, that) clothing hangs from his broad shoulders!”

“Mmmm…” Sherlock just hummed and waited out the storm. 

Mycroft visibly pulled himself together and reset his face to a more familiar haughty expression. 

“If in fact, he was so _pruriently_ ogling any part of my anatomy, surely it is yet another example of the man’s irritating…irritating… _roguishness_!”

“Just so. If you’ll excuse me…” Sherlock stood and stalked off into his bedroom, still carrying his violin. 

Mycroft sat in silence for a few minutes stewing over the complicated mix of emotions that boiled over every time he thought of the Detective Inspector (and surely causing so many emotions meant the man was inherently dangerous) before he realized his brother did not mean to return and stood up to take his leave.

Sherlock helped him along with that decision by beginning a squawky, loud and purposefully out of tune—but recognizable—rendition of “I Like Big Butts and I Cannot Lie” from behind his bedroom door.

Mycroft grumbled his way out the door hoping Anthea would have some paracetamol in her handbag for his headache. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have not abandoned this fic! Sorry, I thought that while on a different schedule because of covid for three months, I'd get so much writing done, but it's been busier than I thought and other projects have come up. I'm trying to get this one finished, though!

**Author's Note:**

> More chapters to come, but I wanted to at least get started posting this before Valentine's Day is over. I'll get more posted when I can; we've been having frequent power outages and horrible mobile data the last few days. 
> 
> The dictionary thing between John and Sherlock is based on a real-life event that happened with my next-door-neighbour and friend a few years ago. He was offended (mostly playfully) that I had a larger vocabulary than him, although I'm not sure why that was shocking--I have a degree in English and read the classics; he has a business degree and only reads Hemingway. He never realized that I could just look up the words he was quizzing me on on the laptop I was holding at the time. Not even when he came back two nights later to quiz me further!


End file.
